"No, sir."
"It will cost several dollars to pay for repairing this watch: don't you think the little boy who did the mischief should give part of the money?"
Horace looked distressed; his face began to twist itself out of shape.
"This very boy has a good many pieces of silver which were given him to buy fire-crackers. So you see, if he is truly sorry for his fault, he knows the way to atone for it."
Horace's conscience told him, by a twinge, that it would be no more than just for him to pay what he could for mending the watch.
"Have you nothing to say to me, my child?"
For, instead of speaking, the boy was working his features into as many shapes as if they had been made of gutta percha. This was a bad habit of his, though when he was doing it, he had no idea of "making up faces."
His father told him he would let him have the whole day to decide whether he ought to give up any of his money. A tear trembled in each of Horace's eyes, but, before they could fall, he caught them on his thumb and forefinger.
"Now," continued Mr. Clifford, "I have something to tell you. I decided last night to enter the army."
"O, pa," cried Horace, springing up, eagerly; "mayn't I go, too?"